Poems List

Song

Song


I saw thee on thy bridal dayWhen
a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:

And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.


That blush, perhaps, was maiden shameAs
such it well may passThough
its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!

Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay;
The world all love before thee.
244

Lenore

Lenore


Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!An
anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so youngA
dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"


Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy


bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.


"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is rivenFrom
Hell unto a high estate far up within the HeavenFrom
grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of

Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"
373

Sancta Maria

Sancta Maria

Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes -
Upon the sinner's sacrifice,
Of fervent prayer and humble love,
From thy holy throne above.
At morn - at noon - at twilight dim -
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo - in good and ill -
Mother of God, be with me still!


When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;


Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
214

In Youth I have Known One

In Youth I have Known One

How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!


I.
In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held - as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit -
And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power.

II.
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told - or is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass?

III.
Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye
To the loved object - so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be - (that object) hid
From us in life - but common - which doth lie

Each hour before us - but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token


IV.
Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven

Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
310

Impromptu - To Kate Carol

Impromptu - To Kate Carol

When from your gems of thought I turn
To those pure orbs, your heart to learn,
I scarce know which to prize most high —
The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.
248

For Annie

For Annie

Thank Heaven! the crisisThe
danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at lastAnd
the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full lengthBut
no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me deadMight
start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:- ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness- the nauseaThe
pitiless painHave
ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brainWith
the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated- the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:I
have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:


Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under groundFrom
a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never


Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bedAnd,
to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its rosesIts
old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansiesA
rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansiesWith
rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of AnnieDrowned
in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breastDeeply
to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harmTo
the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.


And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me deadAnd
I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)


That you fancy me deadThat
you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with AnnieIt
glows with the light

Of the love of my AnnieWith
the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
307

Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.


Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home -
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.


In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodious, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.


Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame
Embalmed in their echoing songs!
256

Evening Star

Evening Star

'Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,

Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;

Too cold- too cold for meThere
pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,

And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light.
306

Epigram For Wall Street

Epigram For Wall Street

I'll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,
Better than banking, trade or leases —
Take a bank note and fold it up,
And then you will find your money in creases!
This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,
Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;
And every time that you fold it across,
'Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!
188

Dreams

Dreams


Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

My spirit not awakening, till the beam

Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.

Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,

'Twere better than the cold reality

Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,

And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,

A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

But should it be- that dream eternally

Continuing- as dreams have been to me

In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,

'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.

For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright

I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light

And loveliness,- have left my very heart

In climes of my imagining, apart

From mine own home, with beings that have been

Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?

'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour

From my remembrance shall not pass- some power

Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind

Came o'er me in the night, and left behind

Its image on my spirit- or the moon

Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon

Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was

That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
331

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Identification and basic context

Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic, celebrated for his masterful contributions to the genres of mystery, the macabre, and Gothic literature. He is also credited with pioneering detective fiction and crafting early examples of science fiction. Poe's writing is deeply imbued with the spirit of American Romanticism, often exploring themes of death, loss, the supernatural, and the darker aspects of the human psyche. His unique narrative style and thematic preoccupations have left an indelible mark on literature worldwide. He wrote exclusively in English.

Childhood and education

Poe's childhood was marked by tragedy and instability. Orphaned at a young age, he was taken in by the Allan family in Richmond, Virginia, though he never formally adopted their surname. His upbringing, while providing him with education, was often strained by complex familial relationships and financial difficulties. He attended the University of Virginia and later West Point, but his academic pursuits were often cut short by his personal struggles and a developing literary ambition. His early readings exposed him to the Gothic literature and Romantic poetry that would profoundly influence his own creative output.

Literary trajectory

Poe's literary career began with poetry, but he soon found his greatest success in short stories. His early works often graved with themes of loss and melancholy, reflecting his personal experiences. He worked as an editor for various literary magazines, where he not only published his own works but also developed a reputation as a sharp and influential critic. His contributions to periodicals were instrumental in shaping American literary tastes and in advancing the development of the short story as a literary form. His trajectory saw him move from romantic lyricism to the darker, more psychologically complex narratives for which he is now most famous.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Poe's most famous works include the poems "The Raven," "Annabel Lee," and "Lenore," and the short stories "The Tell-Tale Heart," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," and "The Pit and the Pendulum." His dominant themes are death, decay, madness, guilt, the supernatural, and the human capacity for both extreme beauty and terror. Poe's style is characterized by its meticulous craftsmanship, its intense atmosphere, and its psychological realism, even when dealing with fantastical elements. He was a master of creating suspense and dread, employing vivid imagery and a carefully controlled rhythm. His poetic devices often emphasize musicality and rhyme, contributing to the hypnotic quality of his verse. The tone of his work is frequently melancholic, terrifying, or elegiac. Poe's poetic voice is often deeply personal, exploring profound emotional states and existential anxieties. His language is precise and evocative, with a rich vocabulary that enhances the unsettling mood. He is renowned for his innovations in narrative structure and his creation of unforgettable, often tormented, protagonists. His association with the Gothic and Romantic movements is clear, but his work also presaged elements of symbolism and modernism.

Cultural and historical context

Poe lived during a period of significant cultural and intellectual ferment in the United States, known as the American Romantic period. He was part of a literary scene that included contemporaries like Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Waldo Emerson, though his work often stood apart in its darker inclinations. Poe engaged with the intellectual debates of his time, particularly concerning the nature of genius, the role of art, and the exploration of the subconscious. His often-unconventional views and critical stance sometimes placed him at odds with the literary establishment, yet his influence grew steadily.

Personal life

Poe's personal life was profoundly shaped by loss and hardship. The death of his young wife, Virginia Clemm, had a particularly devastating impact on him and is often seen as a direct influence on his preoccupation with themes of death and mourning. His relationships were often marked by intensity and tragedy. He struggled with financial instability and issues with alcohol throughout his life, which contributed to his personal crises. Despite these challenges, he maintained a fierce dedication to his literary craft.

Recognition and reception

Poe gained a degree of recognition during his lifetime, particularly for his critical essays and his more accessible poems. However, it was posthumously that his work achieved its true and lasting fame. "The Raven," in particular, became an instant sensation and cemented his place in literary history. Critical reception of his work has evolved over time, with initial skepticism giving way to profound appreciation for his originality, his psychological depth, and his influence on subsequent literary movements. He is now considered a foundational figure in American literature.

Influences and legacy

Poe was influenced by European Gothic literature, the works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and the broader Romantic movement. His legacy is immense and far-reaching. He is considered the inventor of the detective story, with "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" serving as a blueprint for the genre. His influence extends to horror, science fiction, and symbolist poetry. Countless writers, including Arthur Conan Doyle, H.P. Lovecraft, and Charles Baudelaire, have acknowledged Poe's impact on their work. His stories and poems continue to be translated, adapted, and studied globally, solidifying his position as one of the most important figures in world literature.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Poe's work is ripe for interpretation, often analyzed for its exploration of psychological states, the subconscious, and the nature of beauty and terror. His stories are frequently examined for their narrative techniques and their uncanny ability to evoke dread and suspense. Critical debates often center on the biographical elements that may have informed his writing and the extent to which his work represents a dark romanticism or a proto-modernist sensibility.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Poe was known for his sharp critical intellect and his often controversial reviews, which he delivered with unsparing honesty. He was also a man of intense emotions and profound sensitivity. Anecdotes about his life reveal a passionate artist struggling against the constraints of his time and his own personal demons. His writing habits were often characterized by intense periods of creation, fueled by strong coffee and a meticulous attention to detail.

Death and memory

Edgar Allan Poe died under mysterious circumstances in Baltimore, Maryland. The exact cause of his death remains a subject of speculation and debate among historians and literary scholars. His posthumous fame has far surpassed any recognition he received during his life, and his memory is celebrated through the enduring power of his literary creations, which continue to captivate and disturb readers around the world.